Imagining I was having breakfast with Jesus changes the way I view mornings. 

I’ve written similar stories like this in two of my books. I’ve written journal entries often, imagining sitting beside Jesus and eating a meal with him. But this one? It was different. It is different. 

Not the busy mornings filled with working while eating my breakfast cereal. Not the sleepy ones where prayer feels distant or forgotten. But a quiet morning. A still morning. The kind of morning where the fog still rests on the water and silence says more than noise.

In my imagination, I wake and walk toward a kitchen. Jesus is there, the risen One, and He’s not preaching a sermon or working a miracle. He’s waiting—with breakfast. Somehow, the food is also there—complete, perfect, like everything He does. And it isn’t fish for me. He knows I don’t like seafood. I’m not Peter. I’m not craving fish.

Instead, He’s thought of me. Really thought of me. He’s got scrambled eggs and grits, wheat toast with strawberry jelly, and He hands me a glass of orange juice, cold and comforting. He smiles like He’s waited forever for this moment.

“Come,” He says, “eat breakfast.”

The invitation moves something deep in me.

He doesn’t bring up the past, though He could. He doesn’t list my failures, though I remember so many. He simply calls me close and offers food.

I sit near Him.

I wonder why He is here, of all places. And why He cooks breakfast for me, of all people. I look down at my plate, then up at His face. He looks at me—not through me—and says, “This is where new mornings begin. Right here. With Me.”

He asks the question I hoped He wouldn’t: “Do you love Me?”

I nod, trying to convince myself as much as Him. “Yes, Lord.”

He asks again. 

And again.

And something deep within me breaks free. He’s not testing me. He’s healing me. Rewriting shame into purpose.

Then He leans in and says the thing that stays with me long after the breakfast is done: “Feed My sheep. Not just with sermons or strategies, but with kindness, presence, conversation, meals, honesty, and grace. Go where they are. Bring My love with you. Serve my love to everyone you meet.”

I begin to see it more clearly. Making disciples isn’t just about teaching. It’s about knowing the taste of their hunger. It’s about sitting down before standing up. It’s about offering what they’ll receive, not forcing what they fear.

Jesus isn’t asking me to impress. He’s asking me to follow. To walk behind Him, step by step, so others can see the trail He’s already blazed.

“Follow Me,” He says one more time.

And I do.

Not because I have it all figured out, but because breakfast with Jesus changes everything.